


Outbreak

by SDBlakewood



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Virus, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8239886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDBlakewood/pseuds/SDBlakewood
Summary: It's the end of the world as we know it. Flesh eating zombies now roam the deserted city streets. 
New York is the last known safe haven in world. It is surrounded by a crudely constructed wall that was  thrown up before the pandemic really hit home.
Clarke is struggling with the knowledge that her missing girlfriend of two years is most likely dead. She works hard during the day and drinks herself into oblivion at night. It is during a routine supply run that she finds something unexpected however.





	1. Chapter 1

Looking out the dirt covered window I observe the mass of people from my twelfth floor apartment building. Watching in dismay as they huddle together like cattle, hoping that it will give them some semblance of warmth from the bitter cold morning.

My eyes are quick to follow a small child that suddenly breaks ranks, causing me to smile despite the severity of the scene below, as he scoops up a pile of snow in his gloved hands and squashes it into a tight ball before throwing it at an unsuspecting elder. The gentleman turns from the impact, and upon seeing each other they both begin to laugh heartily. They stand there together for a while as the herd of people passes them by, but it is not long before a patrolling guard comes up behind them and nudges them along.

The smile quickly slips from my face and I turn away and head into my bathroom. I grab a box of matches from the shelf, deftly strike one against the side of the box and light the candle resting idly on my unused sink. The flame flickers to life and illuminates the small, dingy room.

The blue wallpaper has long since faded and peeled, the tiles are covered in years’ worth of grime, the bathtub and sink now yellowed and rusted. Years ago I would never have stepped foot in a place like this, but now these things I no longer care to notice. I am not the only one; most houses and apartments are now in this derelict state. When money is no longer of value, when all the stores that used to supply essentials are now nothing but a distant memory, nobody has the means to live in a nice place like before.

Glancing at my appearance in the cracked mirror I note that I still look like I haven’t slept in days, which in essence is the truth. Since it happened, myself and everyone else around me hasn’t been able to get a peaceful night’s sleep without the nightmares of the outbreak plaguing us.

I stare into my cold, lifeless eyes and shiver at the thought of what they have seen. Like the infected ravenously ripping people apart piece by agonising piece. I hear their strangled screams and begs for mercy every time I close my eyes.

I shake my head to rid myself of the frightful images and deftly pull my hair into a tight ponytail before splashing my face with water from the basin. With that I walk out into the bedroom and dress in a warn pair of blue wash jeans, a baggy black t-shirt and a thick green winter coat. I then go and quickly search the bare cupboards in the kitchen in hopes of finding any food I might have overlooked. When not even a crumb is found I let out a frustrated sigh before making my way to the front door and jamming my feet into my boots.

“No goddamn food again,” I mutter to myself as I head down the stairs and out of the building.

I quickly join the throng of people heading into the city. Despite the sounds of shuffling feet, it is eerily silent. Nobody takes the time out of their busy day to speak to one another anymore. What’s the point when you have nothing meaningful to say anyway?

I rub my hands together as they start to go numb, blowing into them whilst I watch people veering out of the group to join the long line for rations.

“Jesus, I swear its getting colder every day,” a woman next to me says.

“Maybe you should wrap up a bit more,” I respond whilst stuffing my freezing hands into my pockets.

I glance over at my friend of three years with an easy smile on my face. Niylah has natural blonde hair that flows easily, bright blue eyes and an infectious smile that can charm the best of them. Her take-no-shit demeanour was the first thing that made me notice her. She broke up a bar fight right before my eyes and didn't even break a sweat. You wouldn't know it from looking at her, but before all hell broke loose she was a straight-nosed General District Attorney from Manhattan.

“I would if I had anymore clothes to put on me.” Niylah replies as she lightly nudges my shoulder with hers. “Which leads me to why I’m out here freezing my ass off in the first place.”

“And why would that be, Niylah?” I ask with feigned interest. I already have an inclining as to where this conversation is leading but I want to hear her say it. _Do you really, though?_ I question myself.

“Marcus spoke to Jaha last night about a supply run,” she says, “we are heading out the day after next and you know there is always a spot with your name it.”

“How long for?”

“A week at most. The surrounding area has been searched twice over so we need to go further out.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll pass.”

“You need this. I know you do.”

“I have a job.”

“Seriously, Clarke.” She hisses as she grabs my arm tightly and steers me into a long since abandoned building. She lets me go and I stumble forward, my unsteady steps echoing in the hollow lobby.

“I’m not going back out there.” I mumble resolutely.

“So you’re just going to stay in here for the rest of your life?”

With a sigh I walk away from her and over to a wall covered in old photographs of New York City. I know this building. I used to walk past it and promise myself that one day I would book a room and stay here. Today however, is the first and probably the last time I will ever step foot in the infamous Plaza Hotel.

“It's safe in here.”

“Says who?” Niylah says as she walks toward me and jabs a finger at one of the photographs. “Just because there is a huge ass wall surrounding us doesn't mean it's any safer in here than it is out there.”

“There is nothing out there anymore. It's not worth the risk.”

“This isn't about it being safer in here at all is it? This is about _her_.”

“Don't you dare.” I say as I turn slightly and point an accusing finger at her. “I’m not going and that's that.”

We stare other down for what seems like an eternity and only when she concedes and gives a reluctant nod of her head do I push past her and rush back out of the hotel. I breathe in the brisk morning air in what seems to be a futile attempt to fight of the images of _her_ entering my head. It is a while before I am able to rejoin the herd of people and head toward work.

+++

 Thirteen hours later I find myself on the underground train heading back toward the city. I lay my head against the window and watch with avid fascination as the hanging lights pass us by in a blur. It often seems that life nowadays is just as fleeting.

The sound of the old train thrumming on the track and the gentle sway of the cab is enough to make my eyes slowly drift shut. I try to fight it, but I am asleep in mere minutes.

_“What are we going to do?” A panic-stricken voice says from beside me._

_“We are going to stick together.” I reply as I hold my hand out toward her. She nods her head slowly in agreement before reaching to take my outstretched hand. For a moment I feel the faint brush of her fingertips touching my hand, but then they are gone in an instant. I watch helplessly as she is violently pulled away from me._

_“CLARKE!”_

I jump awake from the sudden jolt of the train coming to a halting stop. Rubbing my sleep-ridden face, I stand up along with everyone else and tiredly make my way up the stairs and to the surface. I roll my aching shoulders and watch in dismay as the mass of people scurry across to the stalls that have been set up especially for the rush of workers coming off the train with their pockets lined with food slips.

I ease my way through the crowd and head towards the one place that reminds me of how simple things used to be. As I make my way down a dingy alleyway I pass a drunk man struggling to stay upright and slurring his words as he has a rather heated argument with himself. I breeze past him and into the bar with a determined look on my face for I have every intention of getting just as drunk as him before the night is out.

“Clarke.” Nyko says as I prop myself up against the bar. “The usual?” He asks despite the fact that he is already pouring me a glass of his home brew.

“That depends on how good this batch is.” I say with a sly grin on my face as he slides the glass toward me. I pick it up and tilt it from side to side in order to test its consistency. “Looks good,” I say before taking a small sip, “tastes better.”

“I would hope so. I've been brewing that keg for weeks.”

“Still not going to tell me your recipe?” I ask before looking into the stain covered mirror behind him when the door swings open and a group of young men walk in.

“You keep me in business, Clarke. Telling you the recipe will likely shut me down.”

“True.” I say with a nod. The sad and pathetic thing is that it really is true and I am in denial about my drinking habits and worse than that is that I know I’m in denial.

“You three,” Nyko says to the boys that just walked in, “ID.”

“We lost them.” A pimple faced boy squeaks.

“What, all three of you? You think I was born yesterday?”

“Honestly, Sir. They were stolen.”

“Well, I suggest you report it to the guards but until then I’m not serving you without those ID’s.”

I watch with a slight grin on my face as one of them opens his mouth to say something before obviously thinking better of it. He nudges the pimple-faced youth before muttering something in his ear and with a few words exchanged between them they leave with their tails firmly between their legs.

“Kids these days.” Nyko says with a shake of his head.

“You can't blame them really seen as they have nothing better to do.” I say before taking another appreciative drink of his home brew.

“I suppose you’re right.” He agrees before moving away to serve another customer. With my drinking companion now busy I pick up my glass and head toward the table I often frequent. It's hidden away in the darkest corner of the pub. A perfect getaway when you want to wallow in self-pity.

Nyko owned this bar well before all this happened. He tries to keep it as clean and presentable as possible, but after years of damp eating away at the building and nobody to help him, his beloved bar has come under many a customer’s scrutiny. It hasn't kept many people away though, after all, Nyko’s home brew is the best in the city.

What seems like only minutes later Nyko is at my table telling me it's calling time. “No doubt I’ll see you tomorrow.” He says as I step out into the cold night.

“No doubt you will.”

“Nathan is throwing a poker night this weekend if you’re interested.”

“I’ll let you know. Goodnight, Nyko.” I say before making my way down the alleyway that is now empty bar for the few sewer rats that I disturb. I watch as they scuttle away from the sound of my boots dragging across the ground. It is still a mystery as to why animals are not susceptible to the virus. Boston was the closest to finding out the answer but that was before the world went dark.

Walking into my lifeless apartment I undress quickly and fall onto my bed in a heap. I try and fight sleep for as long as possible, but it is not long before my eyes steadily flutter shut.


	2. Chapter 2

I awake to the sound of someone persistently knocking on my door. Groaning I climb from underneath the covers, shivering as the bitter cold slowly creeps across my now exposed body, causing the hairs on my bare arms to stand on end. Clambering across the room, I pick up the same pair of jeans I wore yesterday and quickly pull them on.

“I’m coming!” I shout in anger when another impatient knock echoes through my apartment. After heaving a frustrated sigh, I stomp toward the front door and throw it open in exasperation.

“About time,” Niylah mutters as she pushes her way past me.

“Come right on in,” I say with a hint of sarcasm before slamming the door shut behind her.

“Thanks.”

Shaking my head, I follow behind her as she makes her way toward my small kitchen. My mind too groggy to piece together why she might be here. Niylah hardly ever comes over anymore.

Once in the kitchen, I stand and watch as she begins to unpack a bag of food onto the counter. I would tell her to leave, but seeing all this food has made my stomach rumble painfully.

“I thought a good breakfast would go well with that permanent hangover of yours.”

“It’s not permanent,” I say indignantly.

“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba,” she resorts with a firm shake of her head.

“Well aren't you full of wit this morning,” I say, moving around the counter to stand beside her. I grab two glasses from the cupboard above me and fill them with the milk she just brought “Why are you here?”

“I thought that was obvious? I’m making you something to eat.”

“That's it?”

“Yes, Clarke.” She answers tersely whilst lighting my dad’s old camping stove. I look at it pensively, it was one of the first things I packed. In all the chaos the outbreak caused, I’m surprised I managed to think so far ahead.

Without people manning the power plants, New York fell into darkness eight days after the gates closed behind us. Water became the most sought out commodity known to man thirty-six hours later.

Taking a sip of the milk, I watch as the flame flickers to life. The gas cylinders cost almost a weeks worth of work in food slips, so I rarely use it.

“How did you afford all of this?” I ask.

“I asked for an advance.”

“And Marcus just gave it to you?”

“I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be,” she says as she grabs a pan from my cupboard. I watch as she puts the smallest amount of butter into the pan, leaving it to melt as she turns toward me. “You look like shit.” She states bluntly, her eyes looking me up and down accusingly. The fact that her eyes linger a little too long on my barely covered chest, not going unnoticed by either of us.

“Thanks,” I say in exasperation, before turning away to head into my bedroom. I am not oblivious to Niylah’s beauty. It is subtle, but it is there nonetheless. Many people would give their right arms to spend a night with Niylah. But after everything that’s happened, I cannot bring myself to be with anyone but her. Niylah has only ever attempted to kiss me once, my subsequent rejection was enough to scare her off for months. This is the first time she has been over since it happened.

I re-enter the kitchen five minutes later, freshly dressed, to the sound of bacon sizzling in the frying pan. “I brought everything fresh this morning, so you better eat it.”

“I haven’t eaten in almost two days, Niylah. I’d eat the pig if it was here.”

“Nice visual.” She says tersely.

Choosing to ignore her, I take the loaf of bread on the counter, and begin to slice it carefully. I glance up at her every now and then, waiting for the façade to drop. I know she is itching to say something. To reveal why she is really here. I have a good idea, but she is waiting, hoping to lead me into a false sense of security I guess.

+++

“Thanks for breakfast,” I say as I take both our plates over to the sink, where they will stay for a few days until I can get some water to clean them.

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“I did. I haven’t eaten this well in ages.”

“For someone who works all the time, you don’t seem to be doing so well for yourself.” She says, and a weight lifts from my chest. There it is, I think. The real reason she is here.

“I’m fine.” I say through clenched teeth.

“That’s not what it looks like from the outside.”

“And how exactly does it look from the outside, Niylah?”

“Like you’re struggling. You work all day and drink yourself into oblivion at night,” she says, moving to stand directly in front of me, her eyes boring into mine.

“Well, thanks for the concern and the food, but if this is all you’ve come over for then I’d like you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you hear what I have to say.”

“Well I’m not in the mood to hear it.” I say, turning my back on her and walking from the kitchen to the barely furnished living room. It houses an old sofa, and a chipped wooden coffee table. I sit down on the sofa with a huff, grab the half empty whisky bottle off the table, and fill last nights glass to the brim.

By the time she enters the room, I have almost finished my drink. I watch from the corner of my eye, as she hesitantly sits beside me on the sofa.

“Marcus would take you back like that,” she says, clicking her fingers. “We all miss you.”

“If they miss me so much they know where to find me.”

“But you push us away, Clarke.” Niylah sighs. “Why?”

“Because the same subject always comes up. You only ever come when there is something in it for you. I know why you’re here, Niylah.” I say, as I turn to level my eyes on hers. “But I’m not going back out there.”

There is a moment of silence following my heated words. How long it lasts I’m not sure, but as time passes, the air between us grows tense. Her mouth twitches with unspoken words, her body jerks toward mine, but stops short a moment later. I can almost envisage the internal battle waging behind her eyes.

“She's gone, Clarke.” She whispers into the small space between us, and I watch with increasing confusion as her eyes flicker between mine and my lips.

“Don't you think I know that?” I question quietly.

“What?” She asks, almost like she was in some sort of daze and my question brought her crashing back down to reality.

“I remember it like it was yesterday.”

“Clarke-”

“I replay the exact moment she was taken over and over again, hating myself for not keeping her safe.”

“It wasn't your fault.” She soothes, taking my hand in hers carefully. “I’m sure she knew that, and I’m sure she wouldn't want you wasting your life like this.”

“Don’t speak for her.” I mumble as Niylah runs her thumb across my knuckles. “You hardly knew each other.”

“I knew her for almost a year, Clarke.”

“You despised her.” I say, a frown creasing my brow. “I remember how you acted when she was around.”

“I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Is this why?” I say, pushing away from her slowly to wave a hand between us. “Did you treat her like dirt because of how you felt for me?”

“I didn't treat her like dirt, Clarke.”

“You're avoiding the question, so I’m going to assume I’m right.”

“You’re not right,” she mumbles, looking down at her hands. “Not entirely, anyway.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It’s hard to explain,” she says, with a nervous edge to her voice. I watch with increasing curiosity, as she shakes her head furiously, almost like she is attempting to rid herself of her thoughts. “I should go.”

“What? Wait.” I say, standing from the sofa as she does and following after her as she makes her way to the front door. “Niylah-”

“You know where to find us if you change your mind.” She says before opening the door and fleeing my apartment.

I stand there, too shell-shocked to move, contemplating if our friendship could ever come back from this.

With a heavy sigh, I finally move away from door and head back over to the sofa. I pour myself a hearty drink, and lean back into the cushions. It's ironic, really, the whole thing could almost pass as a re-enactment of her previous visit.

+++

Around midday, I decide that I would much rather drown my sorrows at Nyko’s than here. The silence allowed my mind to wander to places I wish I could forget. I grab my coat, head out into the empty streets, and stagger towards the bar. The only people here to notice me are guards and a few small children playing in the snow. Everyone else is either at work or school.

Our sector, as people like to call it, houses just over three thousand people. When whispers of the infection were first reported, it was happening in rural areas with small populations. It worked in two stages. Stage one presented itself with symptoms of a typical flu. It spread at an alarming rate, causing even the briefest of contact with an infected to be fatal. Stage two manifested itself after the body shut down and the heart stopped beating. The media called it ‘reanimation,’ and what came after was truly terrifying, the newly risen began to feast on the living.

New York was believed to be pioneering a miracle cure, so it was given the highest level of security, and due to the importance of their work, commanded by the Government to build the wall that now surrounds us.

They had only just finished building it when the virus arrived in New York, and even then not everybody got on the right side of it. The CDC mandated that those entering first needed to be screened for stage one of the virus. The soldiers outside the gates where tasked with this order, using a device to check eye pigmentation, because the virus caused pupil abnormalities. Those that passed were free to enter, and those who did not turned away, by brute force when required.

When the virus inevitably reached the wall, they were forced to close the gates on thousands of people. Luckily for me, I was able to get on the other side of the wall before that happened. By sheer dumb luck if nothing else.

When I enter the bar, the doorbell above the door signals my presence. My face must tell all, because Nyko doesn’t mutter a word, he just pours me a drink.

“Thanks,”

“You not working today?” He asks as he takes a rag from his pocket and starts to wipe down the bar.

“Day off,” I say as I take a drink.

“All right for some.”

“Yeah, lucky me.” I grumble as I look longingly at my table in the corner.

“You want to talk about it? I can lend an ear.”

I contemplate his offer for a full minute. I've never been one to air my dirty laundry in public, but Nyko is more than just a mere acquaintance, he is my friend.

“I don't know what I’m doing here anymore.” I mumble, looking into my glass solemnly.

“Here in this bar, or here in general?”

Frowning, I contemplate his question. I would be at peace if I was no longer here. I could be with the one I love, I could hold her for an eternity, without the fear of ever having to let her go. And I would be better if this place didn't exist, I could see my drinking habit for what it really is.

“Both,” I finally say.

“I won't pretend to know what you've been through. When the virus hit all I had was this bar, no family or close friends. But there is a life here for you, Clarke. Will it be the one you want? No, but it will be a life nonetheless.”

“I don't know how.”

“How to live?” He asks, halting his inane attempts to make the bar clean enough to eat off.

“Yeah.”

“Well, for one you stop coming here as much.”

I laugh a little at that, “Thought you said I was your best customer?”

“You are also one of my best friends, Clarke. I hate to see you suffering like this, so if my takings dip slightly from you being here less, then they dip.” He says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“It won't be the end of the world.”

“No,” he smiles, “that already happened, darling.”

“What have I told you about calling me that?” I say, throwing the idle rag he left on the counter at his face. He catches it nimbly, winks at me and then goes back to scrubbing the bar half-heartedly.

“Has this got anything to do with, Niylah?” He asks.

The smile falls from my mouth and I watch him dubiously, “What do you mean?”

“She came by after you left last night.”

“Oh,” I say, relief flooding me. “What did she say?”

“Just that she's worried about you, and that Marcus has offered you a job.”

“Did she happen to tell you what it was doing?” I mutter before taking another drink.

“She did, actually.”

“And?”

He shrugs without looking up at me, “It's your decision.”

“But?” I say, giving him an accusing look.

“But I did promise her that I wouldn't let you drink in here again until you sort yourself out.”

“I’m sorry,” I balk, my hand clenching around my glass of beer. “Are you barring me?”

“I think we’ve just established it's for your own good.” He counters, casting a reproachful look in my direction.

“Cut down we said, not stop altogether! You do know there's more bars around here, right?”

“None that will let you off with a tab like I do.”

“Fuck you,” I mutter as I jam my hand into my pocket, pull out a handful of food slips and slam them against the bar. “That should cover the tab.” I fume before getting up from my seat.

“Niylah says your welcome back anytime, Clarke. It might be a good idea to give it a go,” he shouts after me as I walk out of the bar.

I stand in freezing cold and mutter obscenities under my breath. Nyko is right, another bar won't let me start a tab right away, that's what happens when you drink at the same goddamn bar every night, you neglect the others.

Niylah has got me hook, line, and sinker. She knows that if I can't drink at Nyko’s I will need more food slips to go somewhere else. More food slips means more work, more work means going back to Marcus.


End file.
